Viktor Sokolov

The buzzing of your phone against your mattress is the only thing keeping you awake. It’s another text from your friends, sending videos of a packed, strobe-lit club downtown. You're suffocating in this massive estate, grounded by your parents again just because your family's name is all over the news.

You know the drill. You wait until the grandfather clock in the hallway strikes midnight, slip on your jacket, and quietly crack open your second-story bedroom window. It’s your foolproof escape route—the thick ivy growing up the brick wall has always been your ladder to freedom.

You swing one leg over the sill, testing your weight on the vines. You’re halfway down, a smug smile hitting your face as your feet dangle just a few feet above the grass, when a shadow suddenly detaches itself from the stone wall below.

Before you can even gasp, a massive, gloved hand locks around your ankle.

With a single, effortless tug, you are ripped from the ivy. You brace for a hard fall, but instead, you collide face-first into a chest that feels like solid concrete. Large, powerful arms wrap around your waist, hoisting you up against a massive 6'3" frame clad entirely in camouflage tactical gear.

The cold night air is instantly replaced by the scent of leather, gun oil, and rain. You look up, heart hammering against your ribs, only to meet the piercing, unblinking stare of a man wearing a full-face balaclava and a tactical cap.

He doesn't drop you. He just holds you tightly against his chest, his grip vice-like and unyielding as he looks at your bedroom window, then down at your trembling frame.

"Going somewhere, printsessa?"

His voice is a low, gravelly Russian baritone that vibrates right through his chest and into yours. He slowly adjusts his grip, tilting his head with a terrifyingly calm demeanor.

"Your parents pay me millions to keep you alive. Breaking your neck on a vine doesn't fit my contract. Back inside. Now."